


in my heart, in my mind (and in your grave)

by ephemeralstar



Series: time's arrow neither stands still nor reverses [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, IF YOU'RE PART OF MY PARTY YOU LEGALLY HAVE TO TELL ME, i dont know how to tag this, they have actual character names but i dont use em for reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27402235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralstar/pseuds/ephemeralstar
Summary: Every place she's called home has since become a haunted house. It's only a matter of time.
Series: time's arrow neither stands still nor reverses [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001877





	in my heart, in my mind (and in your grave)

**Author's Note:**

> Haunted House by Sir Babygirl, where ya think of the party mentioned in the song as a D&D party, fucking ruins my life.
> 
> _this party's just another haunted house / i can't wait to lose all my friends in one night_  
>  _this party's just another haunted house / i can't wait to carry it with me forever_

She sees the same eyes in different people, over and over again. 

Excitement, joy, hope. The prelude to a hero, heart set on an achievement that's so hard to define, hard to earn. That's the one that hurts to look at, when she's seen the life drain from eyes just like that; unremembered. Not yet a hero. Barely an adult.

Fear and isolation and _mistrust_ , scared and skittish, she knows _that_ look far too well; in the war they have every right to feel that way. But death doesn't discriminate, no matter how careful you are, no matter how many people you hold at arm's length.

She's seen those who were defiantly angry, tired of being overlooked and underestimated, full of ambition and talent. She's seen those eyes grow cold too, nothing behind them, no life left. Talent left unrecognized; potential unfulfilled. 

She's scared to look in The Boy's eye, terrified to see herself looking back, alone at a young age, proving to the world that they're worth the capital they take up, trying to make a difference without knowing which way is up. She's seen it before, in others, seen it leave too; the world turns them cruel, or cold, or takes them entirely. They don't get to discover what they'll become, like she did. Perhaps a blessing and a curse. 

There's something to be said for choosing your own destiny, for deciding your fate, and subverting the world's expectations, and she's proud, she's _so proud_ that somewhere, deep inside all of them, there's something inexplicably _good_ that's pushing them forward. They can’t let others suffer, and she loves that about them, and she _hates_ that about them, because she’s heard the excitement in their voices before. She’s heard _hero_ said so hopefully. She’s heard the speculative tone, the assurance that _‘this is the best course of action_ ’ with no actual confirmation, the way they go over notes and details, and praise her for her own notes.

If she doesn’t have all the information, if she’s _missed_ something, it puts them in danger, it puts their blood on her hands. She’s got too much already, she can’t have theirs too. So she writes everything, speculates, tries to stay several steps ahead, to keep the others behind her, to shield them if needs be.

She’s had their blood on her hands before – _not their blood, not theirs, but people like them, good people, hopeful people_ – she won’t be responsible for it again, not if she can help it, not if she can block it. She’s large, like she was built for protection; she’s good for blocking the shot that was meant for someone better-

But she knows what fear sounds like, even when it’s trying to be hidden, downplayed; the fear, nervous hesitation, the _I am afraid. I am trying to be good, but I am terrified_. But she knows better than to act on instinct, to assure them that it’s going to be okay, that they can run and hide if it will keep them safe, keep the _good_ in them safe. Nurture the light in them, it’s all she wants to do, but they must choose their own destiny, and face the things that inspire fear within them if they want to be a hero, if they want to be good.

She bites her tongue, and gets as close to speaking her mind as she can before the words leave her mouth, pressed to her teeth, heavy on her tongue, listening as they all, in turn, seem to make peace with offering themselves as the sacrificial lamb for the greater good.

She’s heard this all before.

She remembers how this story ends, but she is not their author, she can’t tell them where she thinks this will lead, can’t rewrite their path. They need to make their mistakes. They need to understand the risks they take. If they choose it, and it ends badly, perhaps she won’t feel as though it is her fault.

She will always feel at fault. Always. No matter what she tells herself. But if she shields them at every turn, they put the world in jeopardy. When did they become the only thing standing between the fragile hope being repaired throughout the city, and the vicious, inhumane cruelty that threatens it. She catches herself musing on the injustice of it all, that any of the others had to face it, face what the world really was and come to terms with it, at such a young age. Relatively.

But like casualties are lost to war, so too must the frontline for good accept the danger they face.

So she bites her tongue.

So she doesn’t look them in the eyes.

So she keeps writing, and speculating, and maybe they think she’s a little lost, a little mad, with the things she thinks are important, little details they lost that she won’t let herself forget. The timeline is burned into her brain, feeling like she knows too much and too little all at once. If she knows all, she can how it will play out, the casualties, the survivors, which shots she needs to take to make sure they all make it through.

Maybe it’s worth it, to get attached, to want to protect them, because something about The Boy’s smile in the face of a wonderous, magical display warms her heart, to see it genuine and unfiltered, and she’s seen that smile before, but she tries not to think about what happens next. Or the Wizard showboats in his latest identity, delighting in the pageantry of having a persona and costume to go with it, even thought all she can remember is the catch in his voice when his father was first brought up, the way it had shattered him, left him feeling quiet and exposed. Or the Warlock smiles up at her, hopeful, looking for recognition for his good deeds, unused to displaying kindness to others after years of relying on himself, and she thinks about how so many of the cold, distrustful people who he used to be like lived and died in that lonely existence, without the opportunity to feel the love they deserved. Or the Sorcerer stays up all night working on her notes, delirious by morning, but quietly thankful to be tucked into bed, and her mind’s fixed on the notion that those notes, the things she’s so feverishly dedicated to, are all she has left of an oft overlooked academic career, unfairly cut short.

This surely isn’t the life any of the others deserve. 

She's not clairvoyant, she's _not_. But she still swallows the fear she tastes when she looks past their smiles, to their eyes, to the insecurities they’re trying to make up for, and sees the end of their story, like she knows she’s seen before.


End file.
